They say for something to leave, you must first hold it. But I’ve never truly held anyone, not because I didn’t want to, but because they came with thorns that made me bleed, or they were water slipping through fingers, never still long enough to stay. Some repelled me like magnets, fearing my touch might bruise their quiet. Others were too heavy with their own weight. I tried, but my arms trembled. There were those like ice, who melted the moment they felt my warmth, and some like unfired clay, soft, taking shape, but collapsing under pressure. Maybe I never held them right, or maybe they were never mine to hold. But they passed through, like seasons, like poems, leaving behind the ache of almost, the silence after song. And perhaps that’s the curse of gentle hands, to reach, never grip. To love, never claim.
-orange_sudoko
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